


Friends on Fire

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras muses on the first time he met Courfeyrac at boarding school, somewhere around the tender age of 14. Canon era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends on Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadneslostthread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/gifts).



Looking back on it, Enjolras muses as he watches Courfeyrac and Combeferre debate over the charter, which ends with Courfeyrac tossing the entire thing into the fire, he shouldn’t have been surprised that he met Courfeyrac in the middle of a fight.

Well, to put it correctly Courfeyrac found  _him_  in the middle of a fight in a dark boarding school hallway at midnight, fending off two older boys he’d rather unknowingly angered. Two weeks previously, and only a month into his coming to this boarding school, Enjolras had stumbled upon a boy named Antoine and his apparent henchman, Jacques, bullying one of the maids, a young lady hardly older than themselves. He’d stopped them calmly and thankfully without throwing a punch, as he was able to call Father Marcel, the Jesuit headmaster, before the situation grew any worse. When Antoine had whispered a quiet threat into his ear on his way out of the headmaster’s office, Enjolras hadn’t taken it seriously.

 In retrospect, he supposes he should have, particularly when he feels his own feet get kicked out from under him and he goes flying up in the air, landing with a thud on the hardwood that sends spasms of pain through his body. He silently damns the two boys in front of him to hell, but keeps his temper at bay.

“I told you I’d find you when you least expected it, Enjolras,” Antoine says, smug, gesturing at Jacques to hold down Enjolras’ legs.

“I was meant to be aware that you would be searching for me in a dark hallway at midnight on a Sunday evening?” Enjolras asks, the words leaving his mouth before his mind can stop them. It is a problem that is none too rare, he’s found, him speaking before he thinks. His adolescent brain is not really his ally, sometimes. He’d been struck with one of his fits of sleeplessness, hoping a walk would lull his mind and body to sleep.

Antoine’s fist connects with his nose, and warm, sticky blood trickles out, red marring Enjolras’ pale skin. Enjolras shakes his head, pain pulsating through it.

“Why exactly are you so furious with me?” Enjolras asks, the tinge of sarcasm very obvious in his tone. There are the words again, coming out without his permission. He eyes the two older boys, sixteen to his fourteen, waiting for an opportunity to strike back.

“You got me in trouble with the headmaster, who then wrote to my father, who is none too pleased with me getting in trouble again. Because you’re a little rat.”

“You were harassing a girl who did nothing to you,” Enjolras argues, wincing at Jacques’ weight on his legs. “I don’t really care for bullies.”

“She’s a servant,” Antoine drawls. “I can treat her as a choose.”

“She’s a  _person_ ,” Enjolras argues, emphasizing the last word. “You should treat her like one.”

Antoine responds by slapping him across the face, and the mere touch of his hand against Enjolras’ cheek drips with condescension.

“It makes sense you’d defend a woman,” he says, leering. “Given that you look like one yourself. Even all of your father’s money and influence couldn’t do anything to change the fact that his son had a woman’s face, could it?”

“If you believe you are insulting me, you are far off the mark,” Enjolras replies, eyes narrowing. 

“You look so fragile I doubt you could even take a decent swing at me,” Antoine says, growing more arrogant by the second. “Even if you tried.”

And then Enjolras sees it: his chance. Jacques shifts his weight ever so slightly and Enjolras sits up, arm launching forward, his fist landing directly on Antoine’s stomach, sending him sliding across the floor. Enjolras kicks at Jacques, finally able to stand.

“My father that you just spoke of happened to start teaching me Savate last year,” Enjolras remarks. “I’ve learnt a thing or two.”

At that moment, all hell breaks loose, and there is a cloud of arms and legs kicking and punching at each other, and Enjolras can scarcely tell his own from his foes’ until he hears a bewildered voice call out.

“Hey!” it shouts, sounding incredulous. “What the hell is going on?”

All the limbs stop flying, and Enjolras feels the owner of the voice, a boy about his own age with fashionably styled chestnut brown curls and a smile made of sunshine, seize him gently by the back of his shirt and pull him out of the fray, still keeping a careful hold as if he’s worried Enjolras will dive in once again. And given the fury that bubbles closer to the surface with each passing second, Enjolras thinks it’s a rather wise gesture on the stranger’s part, and he does not fight against it.

“Starting fist fights in the middle of the night this time, Antoine?” the young man asks.

“I’m surprised the black eye I gave you last term has even healed yet, Courfeyrac,” Antoine spits. “This is no business of yours, anyhow.”

“It will be a soon as I rouse Father Marcel from his bed,” Courfeyrac says, a bite of fire in his voice, his anger clear and matching Enjolras’ own.

At this, Antoine’s gaze whips back to Enjolras, who meets him with a blue-eyed gaze lined with sharp edged ice. He steps back just a smidge, clearly surprised by the fury in Enjolras’ gaze, before he looks back at Courfeyrac.

“A rat throws in his lot with another rat,” he says, gesturing at Jacques to follow him. “Why am I not surprised. Now the both of you had best watch out.”

Part of Enjolras wants to shout after him that Antoine had best watch out for him, but decides not to dignify a bully with a response he doesn’t deserve, pleased that he seems to be in control of his words once again.

Instead, Courfeyrac does it for him.

“I like our odds of two on two!”

They watch the pair go, and after a moment, Courfeyrac turns back to Enjolras.

“Alain Courfeyrac,” the other boy says, putting out his hand in greeting. “Well to be specific it’s ‘de’ Courfeyrac, but I’ve come to dislike the participle lately, doesn’t have a nice ring to it. My father would say it’s because I got my hands on some of my uncle’s ‘incendiary reading material’” he says, puffing up in an impression of his father. “Good man my father, just… we’ll say close minded.”

“Rene Enjolras,” Enjolras replies, smiling despite the growing pain his his nose and taking Courfeyrac’s hand. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac says, eyeing Enjolras’ face. “Though it did look like you were doing a fine job on your own. Better than most do against that idiot and his henchman when they’re outnumbered.”

“I’m stronger than people first assume, I suppose,” Enjolras says, feeling his nose to see if it’s broken.

“Fierce, too,” Courfeyrac remarks, eyeing him. “Anything broken?”

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras replies. “Bruised ribs I think. Sore nose. Bloody at least. The infirmary is closed by now though, and I don’t want to wake anyone.”

“Selfless too I see,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes. “Or stubborn, depending on who you asked.” He loops his arm through Enjolras’, careful to avoid hurting him further. “Come with me, I’ve got some supplies in my room.”

Enjolras complies, a little too surprised to do anything else, and allows himself to be guided toward Courfeyrac’s room, silently thankful for someone to lean on. He muses for a moment on whether or not he should write to Combeferre, who was unfortunately sent to another boarding school entirely, and tell him about the fight. He suspects his oldest friend will not be surprised, and can picture in perfect clarity the affectionate rolling of his eyes.

“You have supplies in your room?” Enjolras questions his sudden new friend.

“My mother sent them with me this term,” Courfeyrac admits. “I got into trouble with Antoine myself last year. But unfortunately his father gives the school a lot of money, so…you know how these things go.”

“I do,” Enjolras says. “But I also know that now matter how wealthy my father is, no matter how we sometimes disagree, if he sensed I was trouble he would deal with it directly. Not throw money at the problem.”

“And are you trouble?” Courfeyrac asks, sly, sticking his key into the lock.

“Maybe sometimes,” Enjolras replies, quirking one eyebrow, unconsciously mirroring what he’s seen Combeferre do a thousand times. He recalls the books his grandmother gave him several months ago: Rousseau and Paine and Robespierre, remembers her American accent whispering in his ear, remembers his father’s displeased expression, his mother’s secret smile. “Though I suspect perhaps you are more so.”

“Hmm, witty aren’t we?” Courfeyrac teases. “Though I am not the one with a bloody nose and bruised ribs, now am I? Sit, let me wipe the blood off your face, it doesn’t do anything for your complexion.”

“I can do that,” Enjolras says, reaching for the cloth.

“I know you  _can_ ,” Courfeyrac sasses. “I didn’t say I’d let you.”

Enjolras sighs, giving in, but somehow unable to frown at this new acquaintance of his. Friend, he corrects himself, because anyone who would help a stranger out of a fight in the middle of the night should definitely, without question, be considered a friend.

“I think maybe you would like my friend Combeferre,” Enjolras remarks, tilting his head back so Courfeyrac can clean off the blood, surprised at just how gentle he is, how practiced.

“A friend back home?” Courfeyrac questions, showing the dampened cloth to Enjolras, and Enjolras is a little impressed with just how much blood reddens the edges.

“My oldest friend,” Enjolras answers. “Since we were five. His family lives not far from mine. Merchants. His father and mine met doing some business. You seem very practiced at this.”

“Well, truth be told, my little sister has a habit of getting into some tussles,” Courfeyrac says, shrugging his shoulders fondly. “And I clean her up sometimes so it might slip our parents’ notice. Lovely people as they are, they would not find that very ladylike, and they do subscribe to those sorts of things. Though honestly I suspect that particular sister might do better somewhere in the ranks of the National Guard than hosting tea parties and sewing with the other ladies. She does not take very much after my older sister. She’s either got her nose buried in a book or she’s outside lost on the grounds. Don’t misunderstand me, both of my sisters are quite fiery, but in vastly different ways. They keep me in my place, anyhow.”

Enjolras smiles, then winces a bit at twinge in his side.

“I don’t think they’re broken,” he says. “But they do feel bruised.”

“And you know the difference?”

“I got kicked by one of the greener horses in our stables two summers ago,” Enjolras says. “I did break two ribs then. Trust me, I know the difference.”

“Do you have any siblings?” Courfeyrac asks, handing Enjolras a piece of cotton to stuff the side of his nose that’s still bleeding.

“No, I’m an only child,” Enjolras answers. “So…”

“There is great responsibility on your shoulders,” Courfeyrac says, puffing up again and speaking in a very deep voice. “I know that feeling. I may not be the only child, but I am the only son, so I constantly hear ‘but you must do well in school Alain, and perhaps you should be a lawyer Alain, and you must marry, Alain.’ Seems a lot to burden me with at fourteen.”

Enjolras nods, thinking he can already feel the skin bruising around his eye. He studies Courfeyrac, who is rifling through the supplies, looking, he suspects, for a cold cloth. People like Enjolras and he has no trouble making acquaintances with other boys, but it is much rarer that he makes very close friends, and here in Courfeyrac abrupt though it is, he sees the potential for perhaps the same level of closeness he shares with Combeferre. He can’t rationally explain it: he only senses that’s the truth.

“Well,” he says. “I should probably get back to my room before I get caught out late. And possibly explain to my roommate why I’m bruised and bloody. He is not the easiest person to get along with, and I don’t think I’m any kind of particularly bad roommate.”

“Stay here,” Courfeyrac says, enthusiastic, gesturing at the empty bed against the other wall. “My roommate actually didn’t return this term, so I’m alone in here.”

At first Enjolras attempts to say that he doesn’t want to trouble him, but at seeing the grin on Courfeyrac’s face, feels a matching one slide onto his own, and obliges. Courfeyrac proceeds to wet a fresh cloth with cool water from the pitcher and hand it to Enjolras.

“Might help with the eye,” he says, rummaging through his cluttered wardrobe for night clothes for them both.

Once they’re both settled in it is past one, and once again, Enjolras find he’s wide awake, now because of the soreness punctuating through his side, his head, and his nose. Despite his dislike, he realizes that he will have to go to the infirmary in the morning. Whether or not he’ll have to tell the nurse the nature of his injuries is yet to be seen, but as Antoine is a troublemaker, it will likely come as a surprise to no one. Part of him wants to handle the issue on his own, but another wants the school to know that there is yet another strike against the bully so that they will be on the lookout should he start attacking other students in hallways at midnight.

Courfeyrac too, appears awake, and turns on his side to speak to Enjolras through the darkness.

“So what got you on Antoine’s bad side?” he asks. “Not that it’s difficult, but. I’m curious.”

“I saw him and Jacques harassing one of the maids and stopped them,” Enjolras answers, turning over on his side as well. “I got Father Marcel involved. I didn’t take him seriously when he told me to watch out for him, or whatever it was he said. I suppose I should have.”

“Most lads around here are empty threats,” Courfeyrac says, reassuring him. “But Antoine’s a bully. I caught him harassing one of the younger boys. Seems not many will do anything to stop him.”

“He kept raving about how the maid was a servant and he could treat her however he wanted,” Enjolras says, and in that moment, he feels as if some kind of shared spark light between the two of them. “My parents were always kind to our household staff, to anyone who worked for us, but I know that’s rare, that people treat others like dirt because they weren’t born with money or with power. So many of those people suffer, they go hungry. One man rules the entirety of a country, a man that’s simply born to the post. I don’t entirely know what to  _do_ about it, I just know I despise it. It doesn’t make sense. I suppose that’s why my grandmother gave me the books she did. Because I spoke to her about it. She was a colonist during the American Revolutionary War, you see. Ended up falling in love with a French general who came to assist the American troops.” He stops, blushing a bit. “I’m sorry. I get a bit carried away. Combeferre is the only person our age I usually talk with about this. Most boys tend to think it’s…odd.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head violently, stars bursting in his eyes.

“Revolution runs in your veins, then!” he exclaims in an excited whisper. “You practically speak treason my friend, speaking of the king that way. Like the revolutionary forefathers of old, I adore it. What books did your grandmother give you?”

“Robespierre, Rousseau, Paine…”

“Paine!” Courfeyrac says, again in that same whisper that might as well not be a whisper at all for how much it wavers with anticipation. “My uncle gave me Paine also. As well as some of Marat’s works. Desmoulins. He was a Jacobin himself, much as my family might not have agreed. I suspect he is trying to make a rebel out of me.”

Enjolras hears Courfeyrac rustling around for something, then hears a soft exclamation of victory mixed with the lighting of a match. Courfeyrac lights the candle on the bedside table between them, a small light spreading through the darkness of the room, both their faces bathed half in light, half in shadow. Once again Enjolras finds his smile identical to Courfeyrac’s own, their combined enthusiasm, flowing between them, different but melded perfectly together.

“Neither of us can sleep, so come over here and we will read together,” Courfeyrac says, tossing back the bedcovers and patting the space between him. “I’ve found the old copy of an issue of Marat’s L’Ami du peuple my uncle gave me, it is fast becoming one of my favorite things to read.”

Enjolras obliges, sitting next to Courfeyrac, still smiling.

“I’ll hold the paper, you read,” Courfeyrac demands. “I suspect you have a lovely reading voice.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, laughing softly, then begins reading. Courfeyrac is warm next to him, and in the presence of this new friend and in the sound of his own voice reading the words that light his soul on fire more every time he sees them, Enjolras feels monumentally alive.


End file.
